It's A Sin To Look This Good
by APerfectGrace
Summary: When the Impala develops a problem, marketing executive Dean Winchester takes Baby down to the nearest garage, where he meets a filthy mechanic with gifted hands and ridiculous blue eyes. One shot. Destiel.


_Man, I knew I shoulda worn the grey suit. Navy just ain't my freaking colour._

Dean's knuckles whitened as he tightened his death grip on the steering wheel.

He breathed harshly through his nose and gritted his teeth as he coasted down the narrow alleyway. The weird noise that was emanating from Baby's engine sliced through his skull, grating his already strained nerves and making him stiffen his already tense jaw.

He reached the end of the alley when it suddenly opened up into a large plot of land, revealing a substantial automobile workshop that seemed void of any activity. He pulled into the car park of the garage that he had absolutely _no_ time or patience to be in right now.

Of _all_ days for Baby to develop a problem, it had to be _today_. Today, the day that he was due to give the most important fucking presentation in the entirety of his goddamn career. He should have been worrying over what he was going to say, not stressing over how the hell he was going to get to work.

The CEO of his company was attending his speech – he did _not_ need this right now. He did not need this _ever_.

He_ knew _he shouldn't have worn the navy suit.

It was fucking _cursed_.

Shit happened when Dean wore navy. Broken furniture, burnt food, missed appointments, missing items, injuries… It pissed him off to no end because in reality, he really liked wearing it. He didn't want to seem like an idiot, but he wanted to see if the colour really was a jinx, because he wasn't a superstitious guy.

Well, he fucking was now.

The one day he had decided to wear this accursed colour because he thought he could prove that it wasn't cursed, five minutes later Baby was making the most horrific grinding noise and he was grinding his teeth together so hard that they were in danger of cracking.

_Fuck my life._

He loved his car – he really, really did. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her. He'd never forget the moment his dad had given him the keys on his seventeenth birthday, clapping him on the back and laughing at his roars of joy as he danced around the brand new, sleek, black Impala now parked in their drive. She was his Baby, and he would always love her until the end of time.

But, _damn_… She sure picked her freaking moments to crap out on him.

Dean was not a mechanically inclined man. His automobile skills were limited to checking his tyre pressure and keeping an eye on his oil level. Apart from that, cars were a mystery to him. Sure, he kept Baby spotless and stuff, but ask him anything to do with how she ran or what was under her hood and he didn't have a clue.

Man, he was so freaking lucky that there was a garage on his route that was able to take her on such short notice or he might have had to put his fist through a wall.

An empty space appeared in his line of sight and he guided Baby into it, pulling up the handbrake and inwardly wincing at the low grinding of metal against metal. He switched the engine off and leant his head back against the headrest, his brain mentally sighing in appreciation at the silence now drifting into the car.

Thank _fuck_ the garage was a ten minute walk from his office building because there was no way in _hell_ that Baby was going to last any longer without collapsing into a pile of sexy junk. All he needed to do was drop the keys off, walk a few blocks and be at work with enough time to grab a decaf. He was already stressed out enough – this garage might just turn out to be his saving grace.

At least he had an entire hour before he had to be in his office. The last thing he needed was to be late, which wouldn't happen because Dean was _always_ prepared. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, wasn't that the saying?

Being the marketing executive of the biggest law firm in America meant that he always needed to be on the ball – you never knew what could happen. Thankfully, he could work his job blindfolded, had a stellar turnout and a killer reputation.

It was good that they rewarded people for that kind of stuff. Not much, just promotions around every corner, travel opportunities all company-paid and more money than God. It was a sweet deal.

It did come with a price though. It was a back-breaking job, with serious hours, reports and presentations falling out of every orifice. But Dean liked challenges – he felt like he was achieving a hundred percent in life.

It was just a shame that there was something missing.

He had felt that way for a while now. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was definitely something missing from his movie-star lifestyle.

He was never as happy as he should have been, he never laughed as hard as he could have (hell, when was the last time he actually laughed for _real?_), and there was this weird emptiness that cast a little shadow over the great things in his life, like if he could just find this missing piece then life would be just that much sweeter.

He'd be damned if he could figure out what the hell it was though.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind, he straightened the tie of his crisp, navy (fucking _cursed_) suit and opened the door, stepping outside and looking around.

He couldn't see anyone around, but he could hear the faint sounds of tinkering, clanging and what sounded like Cage of Elephants drifting into the air from the open garage. He began to head over there, a little annoyed at the lack of people around. The noises grew louder, drowning out the clipped sounds of his polished shoes as he walked up to the open shutter.

No one was there.

_Perfect._

He stood there for a moment, taking in his surroundings.

A battered radio was balanced crookedly on top of a pile of tires in the far left corner of the garage, spitting out something about no rest for the wicked. There were tools haphazardly strewn across every possible surface: across the large counter situated across the back wall, on top of the shelves lining the walls on the right, against the metal cabinets on the opposite wall, even all over the floor surrounding the ramp. As if that wasn't bad enough, it looked like a grenade of black had exploded everywhere, because everything was covered in motor oil, making Dean's nose crinkle in disgust.

_I'm supposed to leave Baby here?_

He hated uncleanliness.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it though, because his eyes were moving over to the main attraction in the middle of the floor. On the ramp was a gleaming, blood red Mustang, dressed to the nines with chrome trimming and gorgeous black leather and flawless bodywork and one_ hell_ of a sexy shape. If Caravaggio had made cars like he had painted pictures, Dean was pretty sure that_ this_ was what they would look like.

He whistled low in appreciation.

When it came to life, Dean Winchester had three smiles: the 'work' smile that never fully reached his eyes (reserved for potential clients and business partners alike), the 'play' smile that showed all of his teeth (used with both friends and dates he really, really enjoyed), and the 'kilowatt' smile, a dimpled smile that only appeared when he truly, truly liked something.

He was _definitely_ dimpling right now. The sight of it made his fingers _itch_ to get behind the wheel of that beauty and take it for a serious test drive.

"Nice car," he said with reverence.

"Nice car," someone whistled behind him at the same time, startling him.

Whirling around, he came face to face with the dirtiest guy he had ever seen in his life.

The guy was currently staring at Baby and was wiping his hands on a rag that had more dirt on it than he did.

He was _filthy_.

Dark, messy hair fell into eyes that were currently trained on the Impala, but Dean couldn't help but drink in the fine, perfect bone structure hidden underneath all that grime. An elegant, pointed nose led down to full lips that were twisted into a smile that made Dean's heart stutter when he saw it. The guy was in a wife-beater that he could only presume used to be white, but that was now sporting a number of oil stains that looked a lot like handprints and finger marks, and Dean didn't know why but the thought of those hand marks being the cause of this guy tugging and rubbing at himself made heat rise sharply underneath his collar. The muscles of the guy's arms jumped as he carried on wiping black-covered, slender hands. Navy overalls were slung low across toned hips, the sleeves tied together and resting at the front, snaking down long, lithe legs. The guy turned his head to look at him and Dean _swore_ he felt his legs buckle as he locked onto blue eyes that practically glowed at him, fiercely illuminated by all the crap smeared on his face. He was the dirtiest, most beautiful human being that Dean had ever seen.

"'67 Chevy Impala," the guy said, and his voice cracked through Dean like a bolt of lightning, "you don't see many of those nowadays."

"Thanks," he replied, a little hoarse. "Could say the same about your Mustang."

The guy laughed, and Dean found himself wanting to hear that noise for the rest of his life. "I should hope so; it took me six months to build her."

"You _built_ her?" he repeated incredulously, not sure that he heard right. His eyes grew round with disbelief. "From scratch?"

The guy nodded proudly, his hair tumbling into his eyes but doing nothing to hide their piercing stare on Dean, who felt his face heating up alarmingly fast.

"Fucking hell, I couldn't even build a Lego stack," he said honestly, shocked and impressed and a little too warm for comfort.

"Cars are kind of my forte," the guy answered, the tiniest smile on the quirk of his mouth.

Oh man, he totally should _not_ do that.

"They're not mine," Dean said sincerely, rubbing the back of his head. God, when did it get so_ hot_ in here? "Kinda why I'm here, actually."

"Dean, right?" the guy said, walking over to a book open on the tool bench and scribbling something down. "You rang about an emergency?"

"Yeah," he said, trying not to dwell on how he had said his name and how it sent sparks down his spine. "I explained everything on the phone. Listen, man, I'm gonna be late, I really –"

"That's fine, I can take a look at her for you," the guy said, setting his pen down and moving towards him. "I just need your keys and you can be on your way so you don't end up being too late."

For some reason, leaving really tore at Dean; he wanted to stay and loosen his tie and sit in the cleanest spot he could find and listen to this guy tell him how he built a fucking Mustang from scratch while watching his ass move in those overalls.

Instead, he pulled the keys from his pocket and placed them into the guy's outstretched hand, inhaling at the brush of warm skin against his as fingers closed around metal.

"Thanks," he said earnestly.

The guy pocketed the keys. "You're welcome."

"Take care of her."

"I'll make her as good as new, I promise."

"Thanks, uh…" He trailed off, suddenly realising that he didn't even know this guy's name.

"Castiel," he supplied for him. "I'm the head mechanic here."

Dean's eyes swivelled up to the red beast on the ramp. "I can see why."

He looked back to see Castiel – oh boy, what a _name_ – glancing down and smiling, and suddenly Dean felt something _click_, something fell into place somewhere deep in the confines of his mind, and he realised that he too was smiling, and he didn't need a mirror to know that it was a full 100-watt dimple smile, and he didn't need anyone to tell him that he was _fucked._

_Goddamn navy suit – _

"I'll see you at the end of the day, Dean."

He was already looking forward to it, and he hadn't even left yet.

"See you, Cas."

Castiel smiled that half-smile that made Dean's knees jerk, and he thought he saw the guy check him out while he did so, but he wasn't exactly oxygen-friendly right now, so it was probably a hallucination. He turned around awkwardly and went to leave, needing the fresh air.

"Oh, and Dean?"

He stopped and turned back to look at Castiel, who made looking filthy a downright virtue. "Yeah?"

Castiel's mouth twitched again and this time Dean felt heat wash over him as those ridiculously blue eyes slowly mapped him out from head to toe, and this time it wasn't a hallucination. "Navy is a good colour on you."


End file.
